


Young Love and Lizard Bits

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 17:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15147878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Denmark, 1215: the Danish queen is a Portuguese princess, and, when her Nation comes to visit her, the Kingdom of Denmark is more than happy to take the diplomatic opportunity to reintroduce himself to the pretty crush from the south that he’d met once, centuries before.Featuring early thirteenth century European politics, desperately besotted ducklings with extremely teenage ideas of courtship, and medieval haircare for the vain.





	Young Love and Lizard Bits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [APH: A Brief History of Time](https://aphabriefhistoryoftime.tumblr.com/) event on tumblr. I’m currently suffering from poor writing decisions (don’t write the ending of your piece before the beginning, and miss out the middle entirely…) and sunstroke, so the second part will be up as soon as I can edit it tomorrow.
> 
> The characters are both teenagers in this, though I haven’t specified their ‘exact’ ages. Nothing between them goes further than kissing, pining for kisses, and some extremely teenage and heavily flirtatious conversation. With snuggles.

**1215, Riberhus Castle**

 

When the news arrives that the Nation-representative of the Kingdom of Portugal will be visiting the Danish Court to see how the Portuguese princess, Bengjerd, is settling into her new life as Queen Consort of Denmark, Denmark gets his fine behind hauled indoors by his king’s retainers so they can smack some of the dirt off of him to make him at least _half_ presentable for their foreign guest. Denmark doesn’t mind so much, even if he has to scrub his face red-raw before they’ll let him anywhere _near_ the fancy new tunic they’ve whipped out for him for the occasion; a – _new –_ visitor is a great deal more appealing than another session with a pissed Norway trying to bloody his nose about taxes (with the aid of ‘friends’ that Denmark _still_ can’t fucking see. They could go through another Ice Age and it’d still be warmer than Norge holding a grudge).

Then again, even _without_ the ire of the Norwegians as the only alternative, Denmark would be amiable enough (this time) about getting his head dunked in a water trough to clean up. It’s not _every_ day he gets one of the Iberian kingdoms wandering up into his neck of the woods (most of the time they seem to be pretty occupied with hanging around their own peninsula and yelling at each other), least of all one he has some history with.  

Denmark hasn’t clapped eyes on Portugal in four centuries – we- _ell, three_ if you count the land and not the. Person-thing. But a long time! Back before there’d even _been_ a Kingdom of Portugal, or a Kingdom of Denmark, to be fair, when they’d had different names and different thoughts and been shorter and wilder and when Denmark hadn’t gotten in so much trouble for holding people at axe-point. (Or at least when the acceptable solution to people complaining about you holding them at axe-point had just been to kill them and move on? Simpler times.) After Paris had fallen and they’d set up a great home-away-from-home on the Loire, the Iberian peninsula had been the next sensible step for raiding – and raiding had been a way of _life_ then, gold and lives coming from the followers of the old gods or the Christian god or the god of the Moors all alike.

In those days the Kingdom of Asturias and the Emirate of Cordoba had both seemed like lands of milk and honey, rich in crops and wine and treasure. Sure, Asturias had had a crappy attitude, but the Roman children so fiercely guarded by Al-Andalus had been lovely enough to make up for _anything._ Denmark hadn’t known _which_ children, exactly, he’d been heading to raid from when he’d first went sailing into the mouth of the Tagus in the ninth century (old _Hispania_ kind of seems like a mess to him? Was then, is now. But apparently you’re not allowed to criticise if your quarters are such a mess that you can’t find the soles to your own shoes in the morning) – but he certainly hadn’t been disappointed with the ones he _had_ eventually found.

Besieging and conquering Al-Ushbuna, what they now call Lisbon, had yielded a lot of plunder and curious, beautiful company in the form of another young Nation: a deer-like girl dressed in silk and gold, with wary eyes like amber, hazel and honey, her hair messy curls and a dark braid long enough that she’d been able to wrap it three times around her fist as she pulled it out of reach of Denmark’s grabbing hands. She had… not really been very pleased with him, especially not for showing up in what had - probably? - been her home with blood still sticky on his clothes and skin, but she also hadn’t tried to maim him in anything but instinctive self-defence after the first half hour of their romance, and had actually accepted the food - that Denmark had liberated from her kitchens - Denmark had pushed her way with little more than a soft low sigh.

She had also, possibly, told him to go die in a fire - or something very similar - at that point, but, neither of them sharing a common language, Denmark had just beamed at her pretty pout and requested she not try and stab him with a spoon, by holding her hand, since her grip on the tool had looked angelically murderous. Naturally, the beautiful southern territory had been overawed by being wooed in such a diplomatic manner by such a dazzling warrior from the North, and had swooned away from his ardour when Denmark had tried to kiss her sweet mouth goodbye when he and his people had gone to move further east in their looting.

Since they had been in hasty retreat on the way back, Denmark had been unable to see the lovely maiden, _Portugal,_ again and bequeath her with his many fervent compliments, a sparkly necklace he’d rescued from a jewellery box in Seville, and that kiss that she’d been too overcome to receive, which had been a great disappointment. He’d had to tell his entire boat about it all the way home, and then Norway when he’d gotten there: he had left his _heart_ in Al-Ushbuna.

(“I wish you’d left your _tongue,_ ” Norway had said, and hissed like a cat when Denmark had laughed and hauled him in to kiss his milk-cool cheek instead.)

So. Denmark is looking forward to seeing Portugal again, many centuries overdue. He’ll bear with the scrubbing and the clothes and the fussing around Riberhus; there’s a need to impress. Though she’d spent most of her time prior to her marriage to the King of Denmark with her brother in Flanders, the _queen_ had originally been an Infanta of Portugal – and she isn’t someone Denmark is too keen on having cross with him. The woman has a face sculpted by the old gods but a look like murder, and not even the _fun_ kind of murder with adventures and maidens and victory and looting?

Denmark can _sort of_ see why his king, Valdemar II, had so wanted to marry Bergjerd - Berengaria, Berengela -, even if it’s true that his previous wife, Dagmar, begged him on her deathbed not to. Her beauty and manner are a little terrifying, and the dark of her eyes seem unreadable after Dagmar’s clear blue. Some men like being intrigued. Some men like taming the untameable.

...If the Nation of Bergjerd’s birth has grown to be even half as beautiful as the queen she has sent Denmark Portugal should be very beautiful indeed. Hopefully not as standoffish though. (Although, even if she _is,_ a lifetime’s exposure to Norge’s _you are an idiot_ look has Denmark well-prepared to deal with it.)

Cleaned, dressed in his best and with his hair styled back from his face, Denmark waits in the Great Hall of Riberhus Castle with his royals as the Portuguese party are led in. Denmark is already searching the varied group with his eyes and all his senses as they make their obeisances to Valdemar and Bergjerd - and is more than a little surprised to find that his sense of _Nation_ does _not,_ as he had expected, go straight for some gorgeous, shy young woman in a fluttering gown, her dark hair pinned up in braids under a demure veil, but instead for a rather pensive-looking, cleanshaven young man in brilliant scarlet silk and wool.

Said man’s hair _is_ very long and pretty though, tied back in a simple ponytail that is so loose all his hair still frames his face and throat with a cherubic mess of curls.  

...If Portugal is a woman posing as a man, she’s _really good._

Portugal - regardless of what’s between their legs, that Nation _has_ to be Portugal - looks up, probably sensing Denmark’s own Nationhood, Denmark’s eyes upon her. Him. (At least Denmark had been right about the _gorgeous._ )

Centuries later, Portugal’s eyes are still bright like amber, hazel and honey, but his hand, when it grasps Denmark’s, is now marked with the calluses of a warrior, his grip strong as he embraces Denmark and kisses Denmark on the cheek as friend and kin in front of both their peoples.

“Dinamarca,” says Portugal when he pulls back again, his smile small but pleasant.

Denmark tries to remember how to make his jaw work. He’d felt faint _stubble_ when Portugal had leant in and kissed his cheek. “You’re a _boy?_ ”

Portugal’s smile falters at the question, and his face cycles through various expressions and emotions before he finally seems to settle upon a rather hapless reply of, “It has been centuries- no-one _told_ you?”

Denmark would like to think he would’ve remembered something about it if someone _had._

“No-one told you,” Portugal surmises from the look on Denmark’s face, his own smile re-applied to his features but looking a lot more strained now.

“In fairness,” says Denmark, because that is _diplomatic,_ “if someone did tell me, I probably missed it because I was talking.”

Portugal laughs - a success! -, and Denmark takes the grinning opportunity to lean in and peer close enough at the other Nation that Portugal flusters, Portugal’s cheeks flushing a colour that has little to do with the cold outside.

“Wo... you’re so _pretty_ for a boy.”

Portugal blinks at that - before turning away from Denmark, to a human Denmark had scarcely noticed just behind the other Nation. He says something to the human in what must be his native tongue, switching out of courtly French and Latin, and, when the human replies in kind, seems utterly perplexed.

He looks back at Denmark, lovely and confused. And devastating. “Are all men ugly north of the Low Countries?”

  


*****

  


The Kingdom of Denmark is cold. Portugal is not fond of the cold, not as it comes in the north, pursing his lips and drawing his _granaia,_ his expensive scarlet mantle of English wool, closer about his front as though it will do much to keep the cold from his limbs. His people are - finally - slowly moving away from Roman and Byzantine fashion at last, like much of Europe had done long ago, but the new clothes do not cover his arms or legs even half as well as endless Byzantine folds, and Portugal is very much in favour of being horrifically outdated in front of all his peers rather than being _frozen to death._

Portugal doesn’t even have a beard to warm himself. Adolescent, he still has some trouble growing one that doesn’t look like a malnourished half-skinned rabbit has died on his face, and besides, beards had been fashionable in Portugal in the _last_ century. This century, men must be as angels, with naked faces and long hair curling at their shoulders.

Portugal wears his hair long, longer than that, and is very grateful for that indulgence now. It is at least keeping his _back_ warm with reflected body heat, even as the rest of him shivers.

Almighty God in Heaven Above, why does Denmark have to be so _cold?_

Denmark - that is, the Nation rather than the land - is very eager to show Portugal all over Riberhus, and so, in the spirit of friendship and diplomacy, Portugal must bear with being shown it. Eager, Denmark does not quite pull Portugal along by the hand, but possibly only because Portugal had not offered him his hand.

Riberhus Castle is apparently one of the Danish king’s favourite residences, a defensive fortress with thick stone walls and a wide moat around it. Portugal would be more impressed by it - and he is impressed by it, as one might be impressed by any significant boulder that comes with an army - if, in traversing its many buildings, Denmark did not have to lead Portugal across the exposed castle yard on multiple occasions. The wind _bites_ into Portugal each time they brave the yard, a stinging shock to his skin that makes Portugal forget, each time, how sweet Denmark is trying to be and just makes Portugal want to abandon him and find the nearest fire.

But that would be impolitic. And unwise. Everyone needs allies now, since Europe is still very much a mess after the disastrous battle at Bouvines. Portugal is still apologising to the teary-eyed Flanders for her Count and his Prince, Fernando - in the Flemish tongue, _Ferrand -_ being captured by the French, dashing both his Nations’ hopes for reclaiming and expanding their territories in the face of French encroachment. And Inglaterra… Little Inglaterra’s Angevin king has lost most of his vast empire on the continent, placing so many rich counties and duchies in the hands of the King of France _._ Which means that _France_ has so much more money and power now, which will make him even _more_ insufferable about how pretty and clever and wonderful he is when Portugal inevitably has to go and visit him. Because Portugal’s king, Afonso, says that it is important for a young kingdom like Portugal to make _friends_ with his kin, to establish himself as an equal and to expand his commercial interests, even if that means he has to sit and bear getting cooed over by his – oh so blond and pure-blooded and perfect – Christian brother for a few days. And being told his clothes are out of date. And being told that the reason that he is growing so _funny_ is because his diet is full of strange and dubious vegetables like _lentils,_ when he _should_ in fact be eating some of France’s favoured cabbage.

The cabbage _smells._

So yes. In comparison, Denmark is very diverting and solicitous, and he preens like a parrot that has just seen its own reflection for the first time. There is something helplessly endearing about the way he always checks to see that Portugal is watching him before he does anything particularly noteworthy, chattering away about the Northern Lights (which he proclaims he wants to take Portugal to see, but “Norway is mad at me right now”) and how interesting and dangerously beautiful white bears are, Denmark _must_ show Portugal one, get Portugal one of their furs.

(Since it does not seem likely that they are going to see one anytime soon, or even allow Portugal to wander off and see if _he_ can spot one of the supposedly beautiful creatures by himself, Portugal does not particularly care much for the topic of white bears. They have already covered how to catch one and how to avoid being eaten by one, which are really the only important bits, so perhaps the rest of the lecture can wait for another time. When Portugal is warm enough and dry enough to _care._ )

Denmark is exuberant and loud, and has always liked talking. In Portugal’s clouded memories of the other boy, Denmark is nearly always talking, blond-hair and moving mouth spilling fast-paced gibberish that Portugal had had no hope of understanding in the ninth century. A besotted babble - Portugal knows when he is being admired, even when he doesn’t _want_ to be - and gesticulating hands. Grabbing fingers. Gold.

Flanders, sweet girl, is pleased with company that treats her like a lady rather than the child she looks like. England, wild Inglaterra who holds grudges bigger than he is, soaks up affection like a sponge. France likes to be complimented and adored. Scotland distrusts everyone even if he likes them, and the best way to get along with Castile and/or Aragon is to make sure that they are bickering more with each other than they are with you.

Asturias simply counts it as a good day if Portugal has remembered to get his hair cut recently. Denmark -

Denmark and his men had swept into Lisbon like a lightning storm off the water, and he had broken into Portugal’s home with the blood of Portugal’s people still wet on his hands and his axe. His blue eyes had been a blaze of fire beneath the dirt and blood drying on his face, and Portugal had frozen at the sight of him, well acquainted with that kind of predator.

Denmark had smiled then, a brilliant gleaming grin in the middle of death.

Silent.

Portugal much prefers the memories of Denmark talking, even when they - and the actual Nation echoing them down the ages - make his head hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> Berengaria is the Latin form of the Portuguese name Berengela. Every source seems to use a different form of the queen’s name: in annals and folk-songs she is named anything from Bengjerd (most common for the Danish) to Bringenilæ to Bengierd.  
> Berengaria (Danish: Bengjerd) of Portugal and Valdemar II (the Victorious) of Denmark were married in early 1214. Berengaria was Valdemar’s second wife, and had something of a tough act to follow - his first wife, Dagmar (from Dragomir, formerly Margaret of Bohemia), is still to this day remembered as one of Denmark’s most loved queens, and is featured in various legends and ballads. Dagmar was known for being fair, pious, kind and beautiful, and it’s said that, on her deathbed (she conveniently stopped being dead for five minutes when her husband showed up to mourn her) she asked Valdemar to do three things for her: to free all prisoners and release all outlaws of their bonds, not to marry Princess Berengaria of Portugal, and, lastly, to make sure that their youngest son Knud was made King of Denmark.  
> Valdemar freed the prisoners, but two years later he married Berengaria, the daughter of King Sancho I of Portugal.  
> Where Dagmar had been fair (blonde and Nordic), ‘the beautiful flower’ Berengaria was dark, and, though she was said to be incredibly beautiful (particularly noted for her lovely dark hair and eyes), rather than being kind, people called the new queen proud and arrogant. The Danes blamed her the high taxes Valdemar levied (for his wars, not just his queen), and the songs about her were not as kind as the ones for Dagmar.  
> Berengaria bore Valdemar three sons, who all became kings of Denmark, and one daughter. She died in 1221, and is buried in St. Bendt’s Church in Ringsted - on one side of Valdemar II. Queen Dagmar is buried on the other side of the king.
> 
> Vikings hit the Iberian peninsula on multiple occasions between the 9th and the 11th century. There were humiliating defeats on all sides, but the incident Denmark is referring to when he mentions first meeting Portugal is the attack on Al-Andalus in 844, when the Vikings sacked what is now Lisbon, Cádiz and Medina Sidonia, and captured Seville for 42 days. They were repulsed: survivors fled, but 400 captured Vikings were beheaded.
> 
> At the time this fic was set, the Norwegian king owed the Danish king allegiance. Norway is vexed about taxes because (after several wars) in 1213 Valdemar II instituted a war tax in Norway. Norwegian peasants murdered Valdemar's tax collector at the Trøndelag Assembly and revolted. The uprising spread over several regions in Norway.
> 
> [A rundown on the 1214 Battle of Bouvines for you.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Bouvines) The battle reshaped the kingdoms of medieval Europe and placed the reins of power on the continent quite firmly in France’s hands for the next few centuries - much to the dismay of the English, Flemish and Portuguese (to name just a few!).  
> Infante Fernando of Portugal (called Ferrand in Flanders), was Berengaria’s brother, and became Count of Flanders via his marriage to Joan, Countess of Flanders. Flanders had recently lost territory to France and owed the French king its allegiance - to attempt to reclaim the lands, the Flemish broke allegiance with and joined a coalition against the French. Which lost badly at Bouvines.
> 
> White bears are, of course, polar bears.


End file.
